


Masquerade

by danpuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danpuff/pseuds/danpuff
Summary: The Ministry of Magic’s annual Victory Masquerade was an event Harry Potter dreaded every year. Yet every year he attended.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	Masquerade

The Ministry of Magic’s annual Victory Masquerade was an event Harry Potter dreaded every year. Yet every year he attended. 

Easier to be guilted into attendance, easier to complain about dress robes and speeches, than to mourn alone. In fact, it had been at Hermione and Ron’s urging he attend the first, if only to pull him out of the bottle. So year after year he let them push, and bent to their will, and was glad for a reason. 

This year, the seventh, was the hardest. He would almost rather drink himself stupid than smile and wave and pretend the Ministry wasn’t corrupt. 

“They’re raising money for _your_ foundation, Harry,” Hermione reminded him feebly. Still, she eyed the invitation distastefully, and Harry wondered which of them would break first. 

Not him. Not this year. Hermione was right; the Ministry had chosen the Shoes to Fill Foundation as their charity of the year, so Harry Potter could not well sit this one out. However prejudiced and conniving they were about the rest. They were only being offensive, and not actively harmful, Harry tried to tell himself, but this did not settle well with him anymore. 

As his husband showered, Harry picked up the gold-embossed invitation Hermione had looked upon so scornfully. It was the same as it was every year.

* * *

** 7th Annual Victory Day Masquerade **

**Location:** Ministry Ballroom  
**Date:** 2 May 2005  
**Dress Code:** Formal robes. Mask Required. 

_Repentant in Black_  
_Survivors in White  
Color for Heroes  
Who conquered with Might._

* * *

It was all in good fun, they said. A way to keep everyone in their proper roles, went unsaid. Some of their more shameful ideas were not stated so boldly, but everyone knew why Remus and Hagrid wore brown. Brown for the beasts - maybe they couldn’t think of another verse, so they hinted strongly to the _part-humans_ in other ways. It was Hermione who pointed this out, as Harry had not thought twice about brown. Brown was a color, and Remus and Hagrid were heroes.

“Brown is dirty,” Hermione had explained scathingly. 

For years she begged Remus to wear any other color. Change took time, Remus would reply, and Victory Day was not the time or place to rock the boat. What he did not say was that he was accustomed to bigotry. They always fought this time of year, progressive Hermione and her weary husband. 

Harry thought of his own husband as he trailed his fingers down the smooth black robes laid out on the bed. Black was not unusual for Severus, and Harry doubted he would wear another color if given a choice. It was another implied aspect of the costume that troubled him more. The bone white mask sitting atop the robes, with its intricate lines and ominous eye slits. Harry’s fingers hovered over the cool surface, but curled in on themselves before he could touch it. 

All pardoned Death Eaters dressed like Death Eaters for the Victory Ball. And if Remus would at least engage in Hermione’s arguments, Severus would not hear the first word. Harry understood nothing, was all he would say. And Harry would retort that he understood perfectly well how stubborn and uncooperative a bastard Severus was, thanks. 

Having never been a Death Eater, Harry could not properly understand what it was like. But he did know his husband, and he knew that if the Ministry wanted to dole out punishments, Severus was happy to receive them. Sins of the past haunted him to this day, and he felt he would never be able to atone for them. What was one night of public humiliation a year, in the face of all he had done? What Severus’s self-loathing did not take into account was how brave he was, or honorable, or selfless, or strong. Severus did not see the hero Harry saw, did not understand how vital his work had been to their victory, saw none of the good in himself that Harry so loved. 

Severus was better suited for the gold mask sitting with Harry’s scarlet robes. Harry fingered the vibrant, sturdy garment, then lifted the heavy mask. It was a gift from the Ministry for the first masquerade. It gave the regal impression of a phoenix’s face, detailed in rubies, and hints of emeralds. Ostentatious, fit for a king - or for a Prince, even. Harry smirked in bitter amusement, dropping the mask back onto the bed. 

Phoenixes were symbolic of transformation and strength. Who had been reborn from the ashes more nobly than his Severus? His husband, who walked willingly back into the shadows, hiding his righteous flame beneath the icy veneer of wickedness. The man who saw a boy crushed by Atlas’s burden, and offered his strength. And they dared - oh how they dared - to villainize him still, this man who had given more than anyone. The man who risked his life spying, and protecting Hogwarts, and saving their hero year after year.

Any alternate attire was promptly binned by his husband, if not outright set aflame. And Harry had spent such good money on silver-trimmed robes with a matching mask, too. Instead he would sit beside Severus wearing a Death Eater’s face, at a table with Ron and Romilda, and Hermione and Remus - Remus in those ugly brown robes, marking him as Other. 

The Ministry had learned nothing from the war. Dark lords would rise again, likely among the people they sought to ostracize. Their dictums no better, no more pure or less hateful than what Voldemort preached. It was all the same, labeling one group of people as ‘good’ and ‘bad’, and ‘more worthy’ of respect and ‘less worthy’ - they only chose different categories of people to trample upon. 

This year, Harry had his war orphans to think of, and all of the good his presence would do them. Even if it meant sitting at a table, wishing he had more to drink; if it meant biting back hexes for every person who looked askance at his husband; if it meant letting people stare and talk as his skin crawled with the urge to hide; if it meant celebrating lives he would rather mourn; if it meant dancing and laughing, rather than screaming and crying.

Jaw clenched, Harry snatched up the cruel mask. His arm pulled back, meaning to hurl it out of the window, but he refrained last second. Severus would never forgive him for it. 

He hoped Severus would forgive him for what he did instead. Harry donned his red robes, and a black hooded cloak, his green eyes blazing fiercely behind the white mask. Gold was carelessly tossed onto black, striking against the darkness, as Harry marched away. The bedroom door closed behind him just as the bathroom door opened within.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written October 2012. Rewritten June 2020. The idea is very near and dear to my heart, but the previous execution was not to my taste.


End file.
